A Caribbean Carol
by Nytd
Summary: "Barbossa was dead to begin with, there was no doubt about that." Can visitation by 4 spirits scare the Dickens out of the Pirate Lord and help set him on the right path back from the afterlife? Pirates of May episode III.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Inspired by the upcoming holiday season, and written in the tradition of _A Christmas Carol_, this is a little tale about getting a second chance. While Dickens' famous work is concerned exclusively with the month of December, this story is more concerned with May...

This is what happens when you combine an obsession with Hector Barbossa, too much caffeine and too little sleep. How could I resist the chance to write Barbossa into the role of Scrooge, and several of the other characters we know into the roles of Jacob Marley and the spirits from the Caribbean Past, Caribbean Present, and Caribbean Yet to Come? Hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!

--

**A Caribbean Carol**

**Chapter One:**

**--**

Barbossa was dead to begin with, there was no doubt about that.

Shot by Jack Sparrow...(_Captain _Jack Sparrow, at close range with the one bullet he'd kept on his very person for ten years,) through his black heart at the moment the wretched Turner whelp carved his own flesh and added his blood to that of so many others within the accursed chest.

Ten years he'd waited, searched, sought, and suffered.

Ten years he'd longed, lamented and lusted- his desires remaining unfulfilled.

And now, at the end of a decade of bearing the smothering, endless curse of heathen gods, without so much as a second breath or a bite of apple, he'd fallen; exhaling the one breath of life he'd inhaled with a gasp at the cold that coursed through his limbs even as his blood spilled upon the ground.

Deader than a doornail he was, so why he should be contemplating his own fate remained a mystery to Barbossa as he thought back upon it.

Where he was, other than in the dark, was also mystery to Barbossa, and he was content to let it remain that way for a good long while. Whether or not that meant minutes or hours, he had no way of telling, and he determined that he would not concern himself with such trivial matters as time. After all, he felt he had more pressing matters to concern himself with.

Such as being dead, for instance.

After a time he decided that he must be lying down, although it had been difficult to tell in his altered state and the darkness. Wondering whether or not he could still do it as a deceased entity, he sat up, and marveled at that fact.

Just as one sits in a completely darkened room for any length of time, and discovers after a period, that as dark as one thought the room to be at first, when the eyes have adjusted it appears not to be so dark as first thought, so Barbossa became more aware of the bit of light that suffused his environment, and discovered after he'd acclimated, that he was in a room of sorts.

Light - the faintest sliver of light, seemed to be squeezing under a door, and after sitting for a while longer in the dark, Barbossa found that he'd discovered something else in addition to the room.

Death, so far, was pretty boring.

He stood with the thought of going to the door. Mayhap whatever part of death lay on the other side was more interesting than the dark square room he was in at the moment. Interestingly enough, despite the fact that standing in itself was not all that fascinating, he found no pain upon gaining his feet, and realized at least one thing that was considerably better than his existence a short while ago.

Pain had been his constant companion for decades, for nearly as long as he could remember, ever since the injuries he'd sustained in the fateful storm all those years ago. While he grew better at adapting and hiding the aches that normally accompanied such a simple act as standing, he was constantly plagued by stiffness and discomfort from the same trauma that had given him the uneven step he'd walked upon God's green earth and the decks of great sailing ships with these past twenty years and more.

And while it was true that the curse of the heathen gods had prevented him from feeling cold or warmth, the spray of the sea, or the softness of a woman's skin –even the feel of his own clothes upon his back, it had not erased the constant pain he'd borne since before taking the first coin out of Cortez's chest.

Went with the territory covered by being _cursed_, he supposed.

How much time elapsed between his first thoughts of going to the door, and the ringing in the distance of what sounded like a ship's bell, Barbossa didn't know, but after four bells – middle watch or the end of first dog watch, he thought to himself, the ringing was succeeded by a clanking noise.

It sounded like someone was dragging a heavy chain, followed by a rumbling, scraping sound, and Barbossa frowned as he contemplated what it might mean. The noise repeated itself, and in that next moment, Barbossa became aware that the door he'd been facing had a handle, as that handle in fact, was now turning.

Eerie dim light spread across the room as the door swung open, and a figure stood outlined in the doorway, silhouetted against the faintly brighter light from beyond the door. Barbossa couldn't tell much about the backlit person until his eyes adjusted again, but it was more what accompanied that person that brought him to recognition of the individual, rather than any other singular feature.

Clanking and dragging his way slowly into the room with Barbossa, was a tall man who shuffled along, his feet bound by a chain to the cannon he pulled as he stepped.

Barbossa peered more closely, neither trusting his eyes, nor his voice, but in fact the latter did work when he spoke the name that instantly came to mind.

"Bootstrap?" he asked.

"Aye," the figure before him answered- his voice a coarse rumble.

"Are ye really here?" Barbossa asked, still disbelieving what he was seeing.

"Aye. I'm here, alright. Real enough as anything else around here," he replied in the same gravelly manner.

"Bill," Barbossa began, "there's not been anythin' else around here 'cept you," he said, glancing at the small, blank, dimly lit space in which they stood.

"Oh," Bootstrap grunted, looking about the barren room until his eyes came to rest on the cannon just behind him. "Well, that's real enough," he said, gesturing vaguely at the gun.

"Yes, well...Bill," Barbossa began uncomfortably, "about the gun..."

"Water under the bridge, mate," Turner grumbled, "although what yeh did to Jack still doesn't sit right with me."

"Bill, ye have to admit that sendin' that coin off to England and cursin' fifty men for ten years might be considered overreactin'," Barbossa admonished, "bit excessive, even. I treated Jack more honorably when I left him on that spit of land with a pistol and a chance, than he did me when he left me on that island with a bullet in me heart."

"I suppose," Bootstrap replied, frowning as he thought it over. He raised one pasty gray finger to the side of his head, and scratched absently by the starfish that was plastered along his temple.

"So, where am I," Barbossa asked after a moment, "and why might ye be here?"

"I can't tell you all that I might," Bootstrap answered, clanking another step or two closer. "I'm not permitted."

He turned rheumy distant eyes to meet Barbossa's. "As for why I'm here?" he replied in his gravelly voice, "that would be to make up for what I did ten years ago."

"Well, 'tis a bit late to make amends now, Bill," Barbossa replied without malice, and indicated the barren, dark, purgatorial room around them.

"Not to you," Turner growled. "To my son...the others...what they've been through because I sent that blasted coin away." He grew quiet for a moment.

"It's as I've said, Bill," Barbossa answered. "Ye always were a bit rash, and mayhap things would have worked out fer everyone neater and tidier if ye hadn't...."

"Don't you think I know that?" Bootstrap demanded, now growing a bit agitated. He shuffled forward another clank, and Barbossa took an involuntary step back.

"Well, then what's yer business got to do with me?" Barbossa asked warily.

"I've come to warn you...and to help you, so you can help the others," Turner answered. "My fate is sealed, and my own sentence in progress aboard the _Dutchman_. Ninety years I have left ahead of me, but at least when that's over, it'll be done and I can move on."

He glanced around the darkened empty space. "Can't say how long you might be here, Hector, but it's a fair sight longer than ninety years."

Barbossa frowned heavily at the thought of spending that much time in this senseless space. Ten years without sensation had been long enough, but at least sailing on the _Pearl _had been better than sitting in a dark room.

"You must know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused," Bootstrap said ominously, "but if you had the chance for fewer regrets..."

"I'm giving you an opportunity," Bootstrap continued with a meaningful look.

"An opportunity?" Barbossa asked, wondering if Turner could possibly mean what he could scarcely hope he did.

"Aye. An opportunity to right your wrongs and shorten your sentence," Bootstrap explained. "You're getting the chance to go back."

Barbossa's eyebrows shot toward the brim of his hat. "Truly?" His first thoughts were of food and drink and a woman, and.....Sparrow. He'd have the chance to right that little wrong. "Alright," he said, "let's go, then."

"Not as simple as that, Hector," Bootstrap said, "especially if your first thoughts are of revenge.

Technically his first thoughts had been of an apple and rum and sex, but Barbossa took Turner's meaning as it was apparent that the man knew what he'd been contemplating.

"You shall be visited by three spirits," Bootstrap growled. "Without their visits you cannot hope to shun the path you tread now."

He began clanking and dragging his way back toward the door. "Expect the second at second dog watch, and the third at first watch," he said over his shoulder.

"And the first?" Barbossa asked, as Turner started to close the door.

"He comes now," Bootstrap replied, and then all was dark in the room once more.

--

**A/N:** My Thanks to FreedomOftheSeas for her input on this story! Thankee, lass!

If you're familiar with _A Christmas Carol_, you'll notice an occasional line that has been taken and modified slightly to fit this story. The opening line about Barbossa being dead is one such line, similar to the opening line about Jacob Marley in the original.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you again for all the enthusiastic and fun reviews for the story so far!

And another thank you to FreedomOftheSeas for her input on this chapter again!

--

**Chapter Two: Caribbean Past**

**--**

Barbossa wasn't at all sure if Bootstrap had actually been in the room with him once the door closed, and he fell into complete darkness again. Perhaps it had been a dream, or a hallucination of sorts. Could one dream when they were dead? Likely not, he figured, and as for hallucinating?

His musings were interrupted by what sounded like footsteps on the other side of the door, and after a moment the handle turned. Bright light filled the room, temporarily blinding him, and he threw an arm up to shield his eyes.

"Well, Barbossa," a man's voice said, "don't just stand there. Come out where I can see you better, lad."

There was something familiar about the voice that Barbossa couldn't place, and he found enough courage to step to the doorway, still squinting at the light coming from beyond it.

"Step lively, now," the voice continued. "Always were one to follow orders sharply."

Barbossa crossed the threshold, and there before him on what now appeared to be the deck of a ship, stood a figure that he hadn't seen in a long, long time. The ship he recognized instantly as the _Oxford_, and the man on her deck her first captain, the illustrious Henry Morgan, his old master.

"Morgan?" Barbossa asked tentatively.

"Aye, lad," Morgan replied. "Come aboard, we've not much time, but we've a fair wind with us for the trip."

Barbossa went aboard and stood before Morgan, who looked every bit as he remembered him, from his great plumed hat to his embroidered red frockcoat.

"Surprised to see me, Hector?" Morgan asked cheerfully, going to stand before the great ship's wheel.

"Aye, ye might say that." Barbossa stood alongside him, glancing around the ship and then overhead at the tall masts, trying to decide if the ship was real. The deck below his feet felt solid enough, but he also knew that the _Oxford_, known in her second life as the _Rogue Wave_, lay at the bottom of the sea after having been blown up during an unfortunate drunken accident.

"So much for trusting you with my ship," Morgan said wryly as they got underway, evidently knowing where Barbossa's thoughts lay.

"Ye cannot blame me...I was not even aboard when it happened," Barbossa protested.

"I suppose," Morgan conceded, "but you did recruit the idiot that took that flame into the powder magazine."

"Aye, well, there is that," Barbossa replied reluctantly. How Morgan knew about the events that had led to the destruction of the _Oxford_, he didn't know, but it didn't seem all that strange to him in this even stranger place. He glanced in the direction the ship was sailing. "What be our headin'?"

"I've some things to show you, Barbossa," Morgan replied, turning the wheel several degrees to starboard. "Evidently you're getting a second chance, but not before you've been reminded."

"Of what, exactly?" Barbossa asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. He didn't think he liked the way Morgan had said _reminded_.

"Of your life, before the curse," Morgan said, speaking of another matter that he shouldn't have had knowledge of, but did.

How the ship had come to be anchored alongside the dock they found themselves adjacent to, Barbossa had no idea, but he followed Morgan dutifully down the gangplank when beckoned.

Morgan led him up to and through the door to a building he vaguely recognized, and if Barbossa thought it curious that Morgan hadn't bothered to open the door for them first, he kept it to himself.

They found themselves in a room full of noise and smoke, laughter and shouting, and it took no time at all for Barbossa to recognize the _Whale and Waterspout_, a popular tavern in Port Royal for many years.

"Why is it ye've brought us here, Cap'n?" Barbossa asked of Morgan, as he glanced around the crowded room.

"Do you not recognize the group in the corner near the back door?" Morgan asked gently, indicating the spot he meant.

Barbossa's gaze fell upon the men at the table that Morgan was directing him to, and he felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and wonder at the fact that he was looking at a group of young pirates that he'd known very well once upon a time.

Cheered immediately by the sight of his old comrades, he called to the nearest of them as he rapidly crossed the room. "Harlow!"

"They cannot hear you, Hector," Morgan said, as he walked along to the group drinking together at the table in front of Barbossa. "They are but shadows of the things that have been...memories...recollections only."

Barbossa heard him and understood, but was too preoccupied with the fact that he was watching himself drinking and laughing with his old shipmates to pay much heed to Morgan's statement.

Barbossa smiled to himself, even as the group at the table was apparently giving his younger self a hard time, and he remembered the night fondly, knowing that they were celebrating his survival after the alligator attack. "Were we ever so young?" he asked, marveling at the sight of Harlow with a full head of hair, Turk with both arms, and himself without a trace of gray in his long auburn locks, pulled back neatly at the nape of his neck.

"Aye," Morgan replied, "we all were young like that once, Barbossa. Do you remember how much they began to look to you for leadership? How much they began to trust you to make decisions that would be in the best interest of all of them...and not just yourself?"

Morgan's tone of voice was even and bore no trace of malice, but it didn't need to in order to elicit the feelings of guilt from Barbossa that washed upon him suddenly as he watched the scene in the tavern. "Aye," he replied quietly.

"Come," Morgan said, touching Barbossa on the arm and leading him out of the tavern and down a busy street.

They stopped in front of a large, tall wrought iron gate, where a young man was stealing a rose from the garden on the other side for a pretty young woman who waited for him, horrified and thrilled with his endeavor simultaneously.

Barbossa smiled and went to stand next to the young woman before his younger self climbed back over the gate. "Christine," he said softly. "How beautiful she was..."

"You made her life difficult, Hector," Morgan said. "Couldn't let her go even though she'd promised herself to marry another."

"Why should I have?" Barbossa asked, walking around Christine even as she covered her mouth with her hands to hide her laughter at his younger self climbing the tall gate with the rose stuck in his teeth. "I was in love with her, and she with me."

"Aye, but you knew before you so rashly took away her fiancée that it wasn't the right thing to do. Did you truly not realize that you wouldn't stay in her world, and that she couldn't come with you to yours?"

Barbossa watched Christine run down the road with his younger self, laughing as a servant from the governor's mansion scolded after them for trespassing. He answered after a moment of thought. "Nay, yer right. I knew it well, but didn't want to admit it."

He sighed and turned to face Morgan. "I supposed I ruined her chance at happiness by being so selfish and not lettin' 'er go."

"For a time," Morgan replied with a nod. "She's been happily married for years now, and is well-situated in a grand house outside of London.

Barbossa nodded and smiled weakly. "Good. She deserves to be happy," he said, even as Morgan led him back to the _Oxford._

"One more memory I have to show you, Hector, before my time is up," Morgan said, and he pointed across the deck to a scene that Barbossa had played in his mind a thousand times before this, over the past ten years.

A pretty young blond woman stood at the railing at sunset, watching, he knew, a pair of dolphins racing each other and the ship. He watched as he himself, older now but younger than he'd been when he'd been killed, approached her and leaned on the rail next to her.

"Madeline," Barbossa breathed, finding it wonderful yet torturous to see her so clearly before him, and not just in the faded memories in his head. He knew that he was about to ask her for her trust, and whether or not he deserved it, the lovely young doctor was about to give it to him.

He went to stand next to her, wishing she knew he was there –wishing he could touch her hair or her face just for a moment.

He watched as she finally took the arm his younger shadow offered her and followed him into his cabin, gazing longingly after the pair as the cabin door swung shut.

"She loved you, Hector," Morgan said gently. "Anything you asked of her she eventually gave, and the one thing you promised her in return...."

Barbossa was in agony, contemplating his guilt. "I never should have let anything happen. I should've put 'er ashore the second I had the chance."

"Is that how you really feel?" Morgan asked, leading him back to the helm now. "Or perhaps letting yourself fall in love with her was not the mistake you think it was?"

Barbossa frowned heavily. "Nay, yer right. 'Twas one of the best things as happened to me. My mistake was ever leavin' her as I did, and I paid fer my greed by losin' 'er altogether...losin' everythin'."

Morgan nodded, knowing that Barbossa referred to the fact that he'd wanted one last adventure as a pirate before returning to Madeline, and he'd paid for his mistake with ten years of his life.

"I ne'er saw 'er again," Barbossa said hoarsely, fighting back a great deal of emotion. "I broke me promise…to the one person I ever..." He couldn't finish his sentence.

"Come," Morgan said, leading him down the gangplank and into the darkened room. "My time is up, but it is possible that yours may not be. The next comes soon."

Barbossa shook hands with his old captain, and suddenly found himself alone in the darkened room again, listening to the next chiming of the ship's bell in the distance. _Second dog watch_, he thought, and he prepared himself for what might come next.

--

**A/N:** Many of you already have read that Henry Morgan's flagship, the real _Oxford,_ was actually blown up during a drunken pirate celebration because someone took an open flame into the powder magazine. I've seen it reported in several places that he and the captains of his fleet were at dinner on the ship together, and any of them sitting on his side of the table survived, while any just across the table were killed by the explosion!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Thank you all for the fantastic feedback on the story! I hope you enjoy this little encounter.

My sincere thanks once again to FreedomOftheSeas for taking time to offer her input on this chapter even though she's supposed to be studying for finals! She thought it needed a little more animosity than I'd originally written, and after thinking about it I agreed. Hopefully you find the results amusing!

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**Chapter Three: Caribbean Present**

--

When the door to the darkened room opened again of its own accord, Barbossa ventured out this time as he heard music and shouting and a gunshot off in the distance. He instantly recognized the street he stepped into as one of those belonging in Tortuga, and it appeared to be quite a rowdy night in the decadent little town.

He stood in the middle of the street, gazing about him at the people that he knew couldn't see him standing there, trying to spot whoever it was that was supposed to haunt him next. He considered heading toward the nearby tavern, when a voice he knew all too well spoke from behind him.

"You're lookin' in the wrong place, mate," the voice said, from where its owner was perched on a stone wall, one knee propped up and an elbow draped casually across it.

Barbossa had his pistol in his hand before he'd even turned completely around and he pointed it at the voice as he snarled his name. "_Jack_ _Sparrow_."

"That's me name, don't wear it out," Jack said jauntily, hopping down nimbly from the wall and eyeing the pistol pointed his way, "although I do rather prefer to be called _Captain_."

Barbossa answered by pulling the trigger, and a hole appeared in Jack's forehead at the same time a loud retort echoed from the gun.

Jack wrinkled up his nose and rolled his eyes up as if he might be able to see the actual wound. "Well, that's annoying," he said, and turned his attention back to Barbossa. "I'd say we're square now, you an' me."

"Hardly, Jack," Barbossa replied tersely, putting the pistol away. It was obvious that shooting Jack in this particular mode of existence wasn't going to bring the desired result. "But if I get the chance don't think I won't take it."

"Well, that's not much of an incentive for me to help you then, is it?" Jack asked, spreading his hands wide and flashing an annoyingly charming smile Barbossa's way.

Barbossa snarled wordlessly in Sparrow's direction, annoyed by the fact that apparently it was Jack who was supposed to be his next guide. "What are yeh doin' here, anyway?" Barbossa asked impatiently.

Sparrow shrugged one shoulder. "Spending time in your charming company is part of my own punishment," he replied.

"Punishment?" Barbossa asked, puzzled by what Sparrow meant, but not necessarily opposed to the concept. "Are ye dead?"

Sparrow frowned. "Don't look so bloody hopeful," he said in reply, " and no...it's the Locker for me at present."

"Ah," Barbossa replied in understanding. "So, Jones finally caught up with you, eh, Jack?"

A pout crossed Jack's face. "More like Jones' terrible beastie, as it were. Nabbed me off the _Pearl_."

"The _Pearl_?" Barbossa asked, now irritated again. "Just what's become of my ship, Jack?"

"_Your _ship?" Sparrow replied, eyebrows jumping toward the bandana around his head. "Need I remind you that..."

Barbossa held up a silencing hand. "We've covered this ground enough, Jack. Apparently the ship be neither of ours at present."

Jack smiled roguishly again, weaving a step or two closer. "I'm workin' on that," he said, a bit cocky.

Barbossa rolled his eyes, and then finally spoke again. "Well, what the blazes are ye here to show me, Jack? We'd best be gettin' this over with."

"Alright," Jack said, jerking his head in the opposite direction, "apparently it has become my auspicious responsibility to act as your spiritual guide, and exemplify several scenarios of current goings-on, in order to facilitate the redemption of your weasley black soul."

"Charmin', as always," Barbossa sneered, following where Jack led.

Sparrow first took him to a building he didn't recognize, to look over the shoulder of a man in a white powdered wig that sat behind a large desk. It had been some years since Barbossa had seen the man in the flesh, but it didn't take him any time at all to recognize who sat before him.

"Cutler Beckett," Barbossa snarled quietly, hand going unconsciously to the grip of the sword at his hip. "If ever there be a squeezin', wrenchin', graspin', scrapin', clutchin', covetous sinner..."

"I have to say I agree with you there," Sparrow said, perching himself on the corner of Beckett's desk. "What's that he's writing?"

Both men leaned closer, unbeknownst to Beckett, and read the execution order for all those prisoners currently being held on suspicion of piracy or aiding a pirate. Jack silently read a bit of the document, and then beckoned to Barbossa, leading him to the cells not far off that were inhumanely packed with the accused.

Barbossa frowned at the scene. "These be half women and children, Jack," he said in an unsettled manner. "What monster hangs children for piracy?"

"Beckett, evidently," Jack said grimly.

"The man should be keelhauled...twice, and then burned at the stake," Barbossa snarled, watching a small girl faint in her mother's arms from dehydration.

"Touching to see you caring about someone 'sides yourself, Hector," Sparrow said sardonically.

"Stow it, Jack," Barbossa spat back, still disturbed by the fact that this vision in front of him was evidently occurring as they spoke.

Jack indicated that they should proceed outdoors, and swept an arm gallantly in front of himself, indicating Barbossa should go first. "After you," he said, and Barbossa merely shot him a poisonous glance and strode through the door without opening it.

It was a long walk up the hill to the top of the cliff across from the fort, but Barbossa noticed that he wasn't the least bit winded in his current state. He thought that he'd rather be alive and panting like a dog at that point from exertion, rather than following Jack around in this senseless form of his.

The two pirates walked along in silence for a few moments until Barbossa heard Jack say something under his breath.

"It's _my_ bloody ship," Jack muttered, mostly to himself.

"I heard that," Barbossa snarled.

"Hearing's still that good at your age, is it?" Sparrow quipped, not looking at Barbossa and smiling to himself.

Barbossa shot Jack a murderous look, about to make some cutting remark, and then he changed his mind. "So, tell me, Jack, how's the Locker, anyway?"Barbossa asked, smirking. "I've never been."

Jack frowned, unhappy with where the conversation was going. "Dry," he said after a moment. "Maddeningly dull and unimaginative, if you ask me."

"Ah," Barbossa replied, trying not to smile too much.

"It's quite irritating, actually," Jack went on as they walked, "enough to drive even the sanest pirate over the edge."

"Not so much different than yerself, then," Barbossa replied in an innocent tone that was much too contrived.

"Stiil have your wits about you even as a dead man, eh, Barbossa?" Jack asked pointedly.

"I'd not be a dead man if not fer you, Jack," Barbossa shot back.

Jack gestured at him dismissively. "Can't see what the bloody big deal is...at your age you were likely to slip your moorings any minute anyway."

Barbossa clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain in control. "We'll just see what a big deal is when I've made it back...which looks to be more likely at the moment than yeh makin' it back yerself."

Jack opened his mouth to retort but Barbossa held up a hand to forestall his comment. "Ye needn't worry about bein' stuck in the Locker, Jack. I'll be sure to take good care of the _Pearl_ once I get back."

"Not if I get to her first," Jack replied.

"Well, that'd be a bit hard to do from the Locker, now wouldn't it?" Barbossa asked condescendingly.

Jack smiled slyly at him. "No harder than getting to her from _here_," he said pointedly.

Barbossa frowned. "Well, ye can be sure I'll get to 'er first."

"Not if I can help it," Jack replied, coming to a halt.

"I'll wager ye can't," Barbossa snarled, likewise stopping in his tracks.

"Bet I can," Jack taunted.

"And I say ye can't," Barbossa spat.

"Can."

"Can't!"

The two men stared each other down for a moment until Jack began to grin.

"What be so amusin'?" Barbossa demanded, not liking the look on Jack's face.

"The _Pearl's_ in the Locker with me," he said smugly, "so I win."

Barbossa rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Where is it ye'd be takin' me now?" he asked impatiently.

"Hospital," Sparrow replied, pointing to a relatively new building atop the cliff.

"Hospital..." Barbossa froze dead in his tracks again, unable to take another step closer. If this was the hospital in Port Royal, as he surmised, and these were visions of present day...then he'd be witness to what _she_ was doing in her life at this actual moment.

"Not an easy thing to have to contemplate, is it?" Jack asked, apparently reading his thoughts. "Wonderin' if she's wiv someone else now, are you? Wonderin' if she remembers you still?"

"Jack," Barbossa replied unsteadily, "we don't have to do this...I don't..."

"Have to, mate," Jack said softly. "It's part of the deal."

Barbossa said nothing but followed Jack through the door of the hospital, once again without the need to open it. They wandered through the wards until they heard an elderly woman say, 'Thank you, Doctor,' and entered the room the voice had come from.

The doctor was righting herself from leaning over the bed, and Sparrow and Barbossa both beheld a short stout young woman with heavy glasses and large owlish eyes, with her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her voice was kind but nasal as she spoke and Jack gave Barbossa an uneasy smile.

"Huh. She's ermm...uh...lovely, Hector," he said, not even making an attempt to sound convincing.

"Sparrow, you idiot," Barbossa replied, eyeing the woman in question with obvious distaste, "that's not Madeline."

"Oh?" Jack said, and followed Barbossa's gaze to where it traveled out the door to where a comely blonde woman had walked past in the hall. They quickly followed, catching up to her as she wandered along slowly, obviously lost deep in thought.

"Madeline?" Jack asked, as the two pirates flanked the woman and kept pace with her.

Barbossa nodded, unable to say anything as he watched her walking along next to him.

Jack grinned wickedly at him. "Well, now, that's a bit more like it, Barbossa," he said, looking her over in a way that Barbossa definitely didn't like. "I might have to make it a point to take ill...once I get out of the Locker, that is."

"You stay away from 'er, Jack!" Barbossa snarled protectively, unheard by the woman that was now leading them outdoors to the cliff the hospital sat on.

"Touched a nerve, did I?" Jack asked, obviously amused by the instantaneous reaction from the older pirate.

Barbossa snarled wordlessly at him, and turned his attention back to Madeline, knowing that he only had a few minutes of this vision. She was walking along the cliff top, watching the sunset with her arms wrapped around herself to fight off the chill from the strong breeze that swept across the bluff.

Jack gazed out at the spot on the ocean Madeline watched, and turned back to Barbossa. "She's keepin' watch for you," he said softly, no sarcasm in his voice.

"Don't be ridiculous," Barbossa said, trying to convince himself it wasn't true. "It'd be over ten years...she'd have moved on by now."

"I don't see a ring," Jack said, after gazing at her hands.

It was the words the woman before them whispered that convinced Barbossa that Jack was right, more than anything Sparrow could have said. She lingered for another moment, watching the sun sink beneath the waves, and in a voice that was barely audible, said to herself, or to someone not present, "You _promised_."

When she turned back toward the hospital, Barbossa could tell there were tears in her eyes, and he hurried to catch up with her, speaking to her frantically, even though he knew it was a futile effort to try and make her hear him.

"Madeline, wait! Please, listen! I did promise...I couldn't come back. Madeline...the curse...oh, Madeline ye don't even know why, do yeh?" he asked, frustrated and emotional as he shadowed her.

"Ye don't know what happened. 'Tis not my fault..." Barbossa realized as she slipped away from him that it was indeed his fault. Not the curse, of course, but if he'd had the sense to stay with her instead of being greedy for more of the pirate life...

His voice cracked a little when he spoke once more, even as she made it to the door to the hospital. "May!" he whispered desperately, and he caught his breath sharply as she paused briefly, almost seeming to have heard him.

"May, lass," he said as she hesitated, unable to say what he really wanted to tell her, and then she was gone.

"Time to go," Sparrow said solemnly after a minute, and they walked along together for some moments in silence.

"You're a smart man, Hector," he said unexpectedly. "One of the craftiest scalawags I know...outsmarted me once or twice even."

"What be yer point, Jack?" Barbossa asked irritatedly.

"How is it you were stupid enough to ever leave that sweet little lady behind?" Sparrow asked curiously.

"Jack, I've asked meself the same question fer ten years," Barbossa answered with a sigh, as they went through another door and found themselves in the dark blank room once again.

"Ah, well," Jack said, gesturing about the room, "looks like times up. Been lovely chatting with you again, Hector."

He backed toward the doorway, and began to close the door. "Barbossa," he said, getting the older pirate's attention once more before he left, "good luck with the whole Madeline thing, mate."

Barbossa knew Sparrow well enough to know he wasn't mocking him at all this time. "Thankee, Jack," he said, as the door shut tight, and left him in the dark, listening to the bells of first watch.

--

BTW -The ongoing Barbossa's hat poll is up to 5 NO and 46 YES!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Caribbean Yet to Come**

--

Barbossa in fact, as Sparrow had said, was a smart man, and he'd already surmised that after being shown shadows of the past by Morgan, and shadows of the present by Sparrow, that his next visitor, whoever they might be, would show him shadows of things yet to come.

The thought of seeing the future intrigued him a little, but mostly he found the idea disturbing, as he wasn't really certain if that future would include him, as Bootstrap had hinted that it might.

The last chime of the bell was accompanied by the door swinging open on its hinges, and when no one came after several long minutes, Barbossa headed for the door. The first thing that hit him was the humidity outside, and the warm, organic, green smell of the swamp that lay about on all sides. Directly ahead of him was a modest hut, and he knew it was within that his guide must be.

Something about the place seemed vaguely familiar as he climbed the few stairs, and the door creaked open slowly of its own accord, revealing a darkened room lit by a single candle in the center of a table.

The door swung shut abruptly, even as he crossed the threshold, leaving him in near darkness, and he felt a strong sense of dread and apprehension, despite the fact that he didn't really think he could suffer any harm since he was already dead.

He considered changing his mind about that once he heard her voice from the shadows.

"Yuh know me, Hectah Barbossa?" the woman asked as she leaned forward in the chair she was seated in at the far end of the table. His eyes had not adjusted completely yet, and at first all he could see of her was the reflection of the candlelight in her dark eyes that were obviously focused on him.

"I know only that yer to show me that which will come to pass," he answered her, not liking the fact that his voice sounded a bit unsteady.

"I show you tings which mey come to pass," she corrected him. "Come closa."

Barbossa walked slowly around the table, and now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light, he could see the woman the voice belonged to. He managed to close the distance between them to an arm's length, reluctant to get any nearer. _Tia Dalma._

"Do you fear, me, Hectah?" she asked, rising slowly from her chair, her dark eyes unblinking, as they stayed focused on his.

"I fear that which ye may show me," Barbossa replied in earnest.

"And so yuh should," she said, taking a step closer. "Yuh still wish to see?"

He nodded, reluctantly. "If it means that I might get to go back, I will see what ye might show me."

"Good," she said, placing her hand on his arm, and standing nearer than Barbossa was certain that he liked. He looked over her hair, which was dark, as was her skin, and although he was reluctant to label her as beautiful, she possessed a certain exotic allure that he was surprised he found appealing.

The fact that she was suddenly pressing herself up against him and tugging playfully at his beard was certainly adding to that allure.

"Dere be a cost," she purred, leaning closer.

"What cost?" he asked, doing his best to ignore where her delicate fingers had let go of his beard, and were trailing themselves down his throat to his chest.

"One I tink be not unpleasant for you to pey," she said in a playful way that left little doubt about what she was referring to.

Barbossa found himself tempted by her offer and then frowned. "Can I? Dead?"

Tia Dalma's expression turned to a pout for a moment. "In dis place, no," she said, apparently disappointed, "but in de next world…" she shrugged. "Mebbe den?"

"Why don't we see about gettin' me back to the next world, an' then we'll see about yer fee," Barbossa suggested, more interested in the task at hand rather than her distraction, once he learned the form he currently occupied was not capable of complying.

She nodded and headed for the door. "Come," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him, and he followed her out to the small porch in front of the hut. The difference in the view startled him for a minute, as he found himself looking at a panorama of wide ocean. Smoking wreckages of numerous ships were scattered as far as the eye could see.

"What is this?" he asked, instinctively disliking the scene.

"De Brethren Court," she answered, surveying the scene from where she stood next to him. "Dem all dead," she said evenly, "defeated by de East Indiah Comp'ny." Her eyes met his when he looked at her. "Seven Pirate Lords are not enough, Barbossa."

"Seven?" he asked, confused.

"Yes. If you don' go back, seven only dere be," she replied. "You know Jack Sparrow…'im in Davy Jones' locka?"

"He said as much," Barbossa replied, still trying to figure out what all of this might have to do with him.

"Dat leave seven," she continued.

"Seven for what?" he asked, a bit impatiently.

"To fight de East Indiah Comp'ny," she replied, matter of factly.

Barbossa let out a short bark of laughter. "Yer implyin' that The Nine would fight? Ha! Since when would they do that?"

"Dey consider it if dey have a leadah, Barbossa," Tia Dalma explained, still looking out at the flotsam and jetsam that was left from the wrecks. "Dey need someone dat be a fierce pirate an' a great sailah. Someone dey respect…someone dat convince dem to work together," she said, turning and drawing near again.

She ran her hands brazenly across his chest. "Dem need a strong man, Hectah," she purred, reaching up to twist a finger through a lock of his long hair, "wicked, crafty, smart, devious…."

She yanked a little on the hair she had hold of, pulling his head down just enough that she could reach his lips, and he found her mouth pressed boldly against his, surprised, but not in any way repulsed, as he found himself kissing her back fiercely, hungry for the contact after ten years without.

She glanced at him with a sly look when she broke off the kiss. "Aiiee," she said playfully, "yuh an' I get along jus' fine I tink."

Barbossa was beginning to think he might agree, and he stole a glance at her sumptuous curves as she turned away.

"Come," she said, beckoning him to follow. "I show you som'ting else dat happen if you don' go back."

She led him once around her table and then back out the door onto her porch, where the scene had changed once again.

It was a gathering of people that didn't take him long to figure out was a wedding. A naval officer stood waiting at the altar of a church, attired in a splendid dress uniform and looking expectantly down the aisle passed rows of well-dressed men and ladies in fancy dresses fanning themselves.

Barbossa had no idea who he was. "Why are we here?" he asked. "Who be that?" He indicated the man at the altar.

"Dat be Lieutenant Jonathan Groves," the woman said, hooking her arm through his and leading him to stand just behind the groom. "'Im wife die two year ago."

"He's remarryin' then?" Barbossa asked.

"Yes," she replied, with a single nod.

"And why would I care about the weddin' of a navy lieutenant?" Barbossa asked caustically.

She merely smiled, and nodded her head in the direction of where the bride was now walking down the aisle, and Barbossa cringed at what he saw. "She can't!" he said in a snarled whisper.

"Why not?" Tia Dalma asked. "Her wait mebbe twelve years, Hectah. Dat not be long enough?"

Barbossa clenched his fists at his sides, struggling with the guilt that threatened to overwhelm him. "Too long," he said hoarsely, "why did she wait so long?"

Tia Dalma's smile was not unkind. "She love you," she said softly. "Trust you ask for, trust she gave…for twelve years."

"And now she be in love with someone else," he said bitterly.

The dark skinned woman at his side shook her head. "Is a long time, Hectah."

He nodded; defeated and silent. "I have no need fer goin' back, if she…."

"Dis be a shadow only, Barbossa. It mey not come to pass," Tia Dalma said gently.

"But 'tis likely," he replied, still staring at the bride who had joined Groves in front of them.

"Perhaps," she replied, reaching suddenly for the bouquet Madeline held and then withdrawing her hand with something in it, "or perhaps not." She opened her hand to reveal a sprig of lavender that had been tucked deep within the other flowers.

"Her never give up hope. Even now, mebbe she hope for a pirate to kidnap her again from she own wedding," Tia Dalma said, a gleam in her eye.

Barbossa snatched the faded, dried sprig from her hand and held it up to his nose. Judging by its loss of color and scent, it was quite old, and he knew suddenly without a doubt that it came from eight years before. "We need to go, _now_," he snarled, one last glance at the pair at the altar. "She'll not be marryin' him, if I have aught to say 'bout it!"

They suddenly stood in the blank dark room again.

"I tink yuh ready, Hectah," Tia Dalma said, leading him to the bed he'd first woken up on and waiting for him to lie down. "Rest now." She ran one hand across his forehead where he lay, and then drew her fingers down over his eyes, shutting his eyelids.

"Don' forget, dere be a cost you must pey," she said lightly, and the last thing he recalled was the feel of her lips barely brushing his.

--

**A/N:** As I've said several times recently, if any of you get wind of the fact that I plan on writing more Tia Dalma after this story, please remind me how painful it is to write her bloomin' accent! :P


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: A Second Chance**

--

"Madeline!"

Barbossa sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat and breathless from the fever and the nightmare. It took him a minute to pay attention to his surroundings as the dream receded to the far corners of his consciousness, and he realized he was back in the strange little hut of Tia Dalma, currently lying on a bed in an anteroom, dressed in nothing but breeches and boots.

A sharp pain in his chest demanded his attention, and he was startled when he found the newly healed wound there with his fingers. He frowned when he glanced down at it, as it appeared to be from a bullet.

His thoughts returned to the strange dream he'd had, now wondering which memories since Isla de Muerta had been reality, and which had not, but a screech interrupted his thoughts, and he was suddenly accosted by a small monkey which threw itself on his shoulder and clung to his neck.

"Jack! How are ye, lad?" he asked, reaching up to rub the furry little head, glad to see his long time companion.

"Ah, so now yuh awake," Tia Dalma said from the doorway.

"Aye," he said, unsure why he was here of all places.

"I sey I pey you back someday, don' I?" she asked.

"Aye, that ye did," Barbossa replied, knowing she'd owed him a lifedebt, "but are ye sayin'?"

"Yuh been dead a long time, Hectah."

"Ah," he said quietly. So, it was all true. It took him less time than he would have expected to accept that fact. "Well," he said, "thankee, Mistress Tia. 'Tis fer certain that ye've repaid yer debt handsomely, but I'd best be goin'." He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

She sauntered across the short distance from the door to the bed, and put a hand firmly on his shoulder, preventing him from rising. "So soon?"

"Aye, I have a weddin' to stop," he said wryly.

"She still waits for you. One year you have before she marry her lieutenant," Tia said, settling herself in his lap.

"A year ye say?" Barbossa asked.

"Yes," Tia Dalma replied, sliding her arms around his neck, "yuh can spare one night more."

"I really can't," he replied, thoughts of the woman he had come back for foremost in his mind. "I need to get to Port Royal."

"For dat yuh needa ship an' crew," she replied, tightening her grasp around his neck slightly, and leaning closer.

"Yer right," he said, his gaze now on her full lips.

"You stay one more night heah, and tomorrow yuh have a crew," she said softly, planting a tiny but lingering kiss at the very corner of his mouth.

Barbossa swallowed hard even as he started to pull the woman against him, joyfully welcoming the flood of adrenaline in his veins and the speeding of an actual pulse in his chest as he contemplated the possibility of taking her on the bed they sat on. The need nearly overwhelmed him after ten years without the slightest contact with a woman.

True, he'd grabbed the Turner....Swann girl a handful of times, and ran his fingers through her hair when he'd moved it aside to hang the cursed coin around her neck, but he'd not been able to feel any of her warmth or softness beneath his hands, so it really didn't count.

His thoughts of the headstrong governor's daughter were quickly replaced with darker lustful thoughts when the woman in his lap suddenly closed her mouth over his as if her survival depended on kissing him. Perhaps he could spare one more night before he attempted the voyage back to Madeline.

_Madeline_.

Barbossa quickly pushed Tia Dalma away, breaking from the deepening kiss they were sharing abruptly.

"Yuh find dat unpleasant?" she asked knowingly, a wicked gleam in her eyes.

"Nay, not at all, Mistress Tia," he replied, even as he stood and deposited her somewhat ungracefully on her feet. "Ye'd be a right temptin' feast fer a starvin' man."

He meant his words, but he also was wise enough to know that hiding from Madeline that the first thing he'd done after being brought back from the other side was to bed another woman, was probably not the best way to try to attempt any sort of reconciliation. And telling her he'd done such a thing? Well, he hadn't survived life as a pirate for this many years by being that stupid, now had he? Best just to avoid the matter altogether.

She moved closer, blocking his path, placed her delicate hand on his bare skin, dragging her long nails lightly across his chest, coming to let them rest over his newest scar. "What harm be dere in one night?" she purred. "Even if ya woman accept yuh back, how long migh' it be before she agree to...?"

She closed her mouth over his again to make her point, and Barbossa found that it seemed she had a valid one. He found himself drawing her in tightly once again, and responding hungrily to her kiss.

Tia Dalma broke away, a triumphant gleam in her eye as she drew him back toward the bed. "Lingah a while wid me, Hectah," she said, reclining on the blanket and pulling him down to her, tangling her fingers in his long hair even as he began kissing her neck ravenously. "Pleasure first, and den we talk 'bout de rest of yuh peyment."

Barbossa halted where he was at her throat in mid kiss. "What 'rest of me payment'?" he asked, his voice suddenly concerned.

"A simple task is all," she replied in a seductive whisper, pressing herself up against him and trying to return his attention to where they'd been heading.

He pulled back a bit further to meet her eyes with an unblinking blue stare. "What task?" he asked, his voice gone cold as his gaze.

"A trifle," she said, waiving him off a bit with a casual flick of her delicate hand.

"We'll be discussin' it first, I think," Barbossa said, pinning her against the bed where she was, not missing the instant flash of anger in her eyes that disappeared almost before he saw it. Her expression turned to a sensual pout, and when she still realized his hard stare was unbroken, she resigned herself to tell him what she desired of him.

"Yuh know of de goddess, Calypso?" she asked.

"Aye," he replied, "imprisoned by the firs' Brethren Court she was; bound in 'er bones for all eternity."

"No longa, all eternity," she replied, staring him down defiantly.

Barbossa stared back at her for a moment, brow furrowed in puzzlement until just what was going on sank in, and he tore himself from her and the bed, gaining his feet and pacing agitatedly.

"Yeh cursed swampcat!" he spat at her angrily. "You meant to trap me!"

"Trap is a haarsh word," she said, losing all pretenses at that point.

He snarled wordlessly as he paced and then spoke again. "'Tis well know that any man who sleeps with a goddess unawares becomes her slave fer all eternity! You never meant to help me get back to..."

She rose off the bed and gazed up at him with a dark look in her eyes, defiance and anger now creeping into her half-whispered question. "Yuh wan' go back to ya woman? Den yuh help me first. I bring yuh back, you will release me…den yuh be allowed to go ta Mahdaline."

Barbossa whipped his head in her direction. "How do you know her name?" he demanded, not liking the idea of the witch-goddess knowing it.

The smile that slowly spread across Calypso's face was not a pleasant one. "She name be da firs' ting you sey, when you awake," she said sweetly, mocking him. "Menny tings I know about Mahdaline Gray."

Barbossa took a bold step toward her. "You stay away from her, witch!" he snarled.

Calypso continued to smile. "Or else what?" she purred. "Is a simple mattah, Barbossa. I bring yuh back, yuh set me free and our debt is settled."

Barbossa thought frantically for a moment, knowing this agreement was going to be a critical one. "How exactly am I to free you, and why did ye not ask this of me when we met before?"

"You not be a Pirate Lord den, Barbossa," she said, her tone playful once again, and at that moment he understood what had to be done.

--

He had to say, standing at the bottom of the stairs, that the looks on all their faces were really quite amusing, and he took a bite of the apple he'd been toying with, just to reinforce the understanding that he was in fact, alive.

He'd made his bargain with the goddess, and been thankful that she'd not been a stickler for specifics. It was going to leave him a lot more leeway to do what needed to be done, in the manner he saw fit.

He'd release Calypso from her imprisonment and then, his part of the bargain complete, would try his hand at life again, and this time there would be no mistakes.

One year he had to accomplish what she asked of him; one year to make it to Singapore to gather the secrets to the passage. One year he had to guide a ragtag group of misfit pirates through a journey that so very few had ever taken, and even fewer had ever survived – all to bring back the greatest misfit pirate of them all.

By the end of that year, he must see to it that the song was sung- that the call went out, and ensure that the Brethren gathered, which would be easier to do than convincing them of what needed to be done next, once assembled. Of course, the goddess knew that of the few people that might be capable of achieving such a task, the Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea was one of them.

As much as he longed to find out whether or not there was still a chance with the woman that Calypso said still might wait for him, he knew that it was only fitting that he addressed the matter of his first love, first. Jack clung to his shoulder, screeching in excitement as he spoke to the dumbstruck group of pirates.

"So, tell me," he said jauntily, apple still in hand, "what's become of my ship?"

--

**A/N:** Thanks once again for all the great comments and support for this story! It's been a fun way to explore Barbossa's return from the afterworld and you all have made it even more fun! Cheers!

Current Barbossa's Hat results: 6 No 50 Yes!

--


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